Sweet Blasphemy
by AkariOkayama
Summary: Seraphina Blakeley can see the dead. She says blasphemous words against Death- and He takes interest in her. Instead of murdering her, He sends five of his fallen angels to befriend her & kidnap her when she is old enough to be his bride. Seraphina befriends these men- but are the people who taught her to live going to be the people who lead her to Death? NOTE: this is a BVB fic!
1. Chapter 1

My name is Seraphina Blakeley. Seraphina. Not Seraphine._ Seraphina. _Everywhere I have ever gone, people have adamantly insisted that my name is Seraphine. They wrote it in permanent marker on my nametag on every field trip I've ever taken. When I was in the hospital earlier this year, the temporary plaque on my door read: Seraphine Blakeley.

Seraphine.

I do not know why this infuriates me so. No- no. I take that statement back. I _do _know why. It infuriates me because by not bothering to learn my name and to learn it correctly, it gives me the impression that these Seraphine-christening people do not care. They do not care that I have corrected them a thousand times or that I will do so a thousand times again. All they know is that I am unimportant, unimportant and trivial, just like the "a" on the end of my name. I am just another little kid to these people. And sooner rather than later, I will move along and they will never see me again.

Being called "Seraphine" makes me want smack people.

I did once, when the nurse in the hospital was getting ready to discharge me after two long months of incarceration and being forced to talk about my feelings. She'd been the same nurse who'd took me to my room the first night I got there. She had been my favorite nurse. We'd eaten breakfast together on my first morning. She'd called me Seraphine several times that breakfast, but that had not bothered me so much. I'd just met her. It was an easy mistake to make. I corrected her pleasantly and had kept eating.

Yet every time I'd seen her after that, I'd been greeted as "hello there, Seraphine." And although she'd be greeted in response with a "my name is Seraphina, Nurse Patricia" every single time, she would invariably do it again the next time we crossed paths.

I had thought Nurse Patricia and I were friends. After all, she was the one who gave me a sparkly band-aid after she drew my blood. She'd get me an extra glass of orange juice in the morning without complaining about spoiled children and their greediness for citrus products. I mean, Nurse Patty was the only nurse I would ever ask for the key to the bathroom, for god's sake (the other nurses terrified me)! But on my last day, she led me down the hallway to the set of locked, steel, bulletproof glassed doors and said: "Are you sure your parents can handle you, Seraphine?"

I had punched her.

And yes, it was a dumb thing to do. I realize this. I have suffered the consequences of my violent loss of control. Just because of that _slight_ physical assault, that only caused Nurse Patty to have a _slight _black eye, which only gave me a _slight _history of violent outbursts- I was locked in the hospital for another three weeks.

But now I am free. I am in the car with my parents, in the back seat, on the ride back to my house. I have not seen my house in almost three months. Three whole months! I have lost so much time! I start kindergarten in two weeks! I have so much to do! I must study- what if the teacher expects us to have the dictionary memorized? What if my basic knowledge of algebra is not good enough? What if all of my classmates are already learning _geometry?!_

I shiver in the back of my parents' car, anxious to get home and start memorizing the rules of geometry. I will _not _be the dumb kid in the class. I will not allow myself to be alienated from my peers!

Oh how wonderful it will be to have friends! I never have anyone to play with. My existence is a desolate and solitary one. All of the neighborhood children run from me when I try to join in on their complex games, games that involve ropes and pastels that color the asphalt and complicated foot movements. I have tried to learn these games- but the secret to them still eludes me. Based on _my _research, they are quite honestly too simple to make any sense. Of course I am missing a crucial bit of information- my peers' brains surely require challenges that the data I possess does not present!

"Seraphina?" My father asks from the passenger seat of the car. "Seraphina, are you having an Incident? Do we need to take you back to the hospital?"

I shake my head vigorously. No, no I am not having an Incident, father. The Incidents do not exist.

"Incidents" is what my mother and father call the times when I drift off into my own little world. They think that there is something wrong with my brain. They think that I see things that are not really there.

But they are wrong!

I see things that _anyone _could see if they tried hard enough! For example, at my grandmother's funeral, I saw her spirit standing beside her coffin. It was obvious, clear as day- it was my Gramma, lacy white gloves and all. I tried to go up there and talk to her, and tell her that she needed to stop playing around and let my daddy know she was okay, but my dad grabbed me. He said that I wasn't allowed near his mom's coffin. That it was too sad for me to handle.

I think what he meant to say was that the sight of my grandmother's corpse would be too macabre for me. Gramma had gotten run over by a car while she crossed the street, on her way to church to go talk to God or something.

I remember telling my dad grouchily that if he didn't want anyone looking at his mommy's gnarled corpse than maybe he shouldn't have chosen to have an open coffin ceremony. My daddy didn't like that- he grabbed me by the ear and dragged me away from the crowd of mourners and locked me in the car. I pounded on the glass and yelled at him to let me out so I could go talk to Gramma, but he just turned the climate control system and the radio on and then walked away.

I don't know what he expected me to do. Just sit in the car and play with the radio while strange men lowered my Gramma's body into the earth-hole, her spirit watching with a morose expression all the while? Instead, I yelled at Gramma to come over and rescue me. She, and only she, noticed me. Gramma drifted over, gliding over the fallen autumn leaves until she passed through the car and was floating next to me.

"Gramma, we have to show daddy that you're okay!" I'd burst out, yanking on the door handle to no avail.

"I'm afraid he can't see me, sweetheart," my Gramma had said gently. I scrunched my eyebrows together, all scrunchy-like, the way I do when I'm making my "what's that supposed to mean" face.

"What? Why?" I inquired. "You're right here! Did he not get his contact lens prescription updated? Maybe if we hold you close enough, he'll see you. Maybe if we got his glasses-"

"Seraphina, there isn't a prescription in the world that's strong enough to let your daddy, or any other person, see me," Gramma said, a melancholy smile on her thin, painted-pink lips. "Only special people can see me."

"I can see you!" I argued.

"Yes, my dear," Gramma laughed. She smoothed my fluffy hair and kissed the top of my head. "You can see me. But you are one of those special people. Your daddy is not. I'm afraid the only thing we can do for your daddy is just to let him grieve and, eventually, move on."

"No!" I protested. "No, grieving is sadness, and sadness is bad! My daddy doesn't have to grieve! He just has to know that you're okay! How can I let him know that you're okay? Isn't there a way that he can see you too?"

"He can see me in his memories, my sweet little dove," Gramma said.

"No! That's poop! He needs to see you _now!_" I shouted.

"Seraphina!" My Gramma exclaimed, her expression and tone cross. "Seraphina, throwing a tantrum does not solve anything. Your daddy has to learn how to let go, how to believe in the power of Death, on his own."

"The power of Death?" I asked dubiously. "The only power that Death has is the power to _kill people. _Death is nothing but a big child throwing a temper tantrum, taking lives just because he feels like it."

_"__Seraphina!"_ hollered my Gramma. Something that looked very much like terror filled her eyes and she pulled me close to her chest. I coughed as the overwhelming scents of amber and musk filled me nostrils and clogged my throat, making me gag. "Seraphina, you must take that back this instant!"

"Why?" I challenged. "Why should I? Is Death going to smite me just because I'm telling the truth? He can't handle a little criticism?"

Before Gramma could answer, I heard the click of my dad unlocking the car and he and my mom slid into the front seats.

"Daddy! Daddy, turn around and look behind you- Gramma's here!" I said, excited and a little desperate. Gramma had to be lying. Of course my dad could see her. Only crazy people see things that no one else could. And I was not crazy.

But when my dad craned his neck to look at the seat next to me, his gaze was empty. Gramma sat there in plain sight, and he did not see her.

"I've had enough of your bullshit, Seraphina," he spat out. "Just keep quiet, and try to be normal for once. I don't want to hear about your imaginary friends, especially ones that you've based off of your dead grandmother. Because that's sick, Seraphina. It's sick, and maybe you're sick."

"But daddy she's not imaginary, she's right here! Say something. Gramma!" I cried, and tugged on Gramma's velvet sleeve. Gramma patted me on the head, tears filling her pale eyes.

"Seraphina, you have to let it go," she whispered. "If you want to be a normal girl, you have to pretend that you can't see me."

"But I _can _see you!" I shouted in response. "Why would I pretend that I can't? That's something mean people do in TV shows! I'm not a mean person; that's why I'm not gonna let daddy be sad that you're dead if you're right here! I'm going to get him to see you!"

"The only way that your daddy will ever be able to see me again is if he is dead as well," Gramma said softly.

"No!" I sobbed, clutching onto her. "No, there's got to be another way! There has to be! There has to be a way, and I won't stop until I find it!"

"Seraphina, stop screaming!" My dad yelled from the front seat. "There is nobody there! You're scaring me, and you're scaring your mother! This is not funny, or cute, or helpful in any way and we both want you to stop!"

"Seraphina, you have to chose to be normal. Or he will come for you," Gramma said, taking my hands in hers and pleading with me. "I don't want that life for you, my dove. You have to let go of me, and of your fantasy worlds, or it'll all be over or you! _You have to stop trying to convince your parents that I'm here, and instead convince them and everyone else that you're normal!"_

"But I'm not normal!" I ripped my hands out of Gramma's and locked eyes with her. "I'm not normal, and I'll never stop! _Never!"_

"Seraphina-" Gramma tried, her voice cracking as tears spilled out of her eyes and nestled into the craggy wrinkles of her face.

"No!" I interrupted. "I will be whoever I want to be and _I will not pretend!"_

Gramma was silent, staring at me with a moony glaze on the glass of her eyes. Her lip quivered as she extended her leathery hand to my face and caressed my cheek with her thumb. "You have chosen," she murmured, then she vanished from my sight.

My father took me directly to the hospital, where they diagnosed me with a bunch of nonsense mental disorders. Then they strapped me into an ambulance and took me to another hospital, the hospital that Nurse Patty worked at, the one that I have just left now after almost three months.

I had had "Incidents" before the one with Gramma, but none of them had been so bad. One time, when I watched a documentary on Albert Einstein on the Discovery channel, his ghost followed me around for nearly a week. My mother had thought that I was just playing around, that I was using my imagination. Usually, that's what would happen when I'd see people that my parents couldn't. But the Incident at Gramma's funeral was the last straw for them, I guess. I guess it's hard not to see what's right in front of you. I don't know how they can survive being so blind.

In present day, my mother is not letting me off the hook so easily for spacing out. "Seraphina, a nod is not a response," she says.

Although I am quite sure that a nod is a sign used for affirmation in countries all over the world, I do not say so. I just say: "Yes, I'm certain that I don't need to go back to the hospital."

"Alright," my mother says, trying to sound firm, but it is obvious she is not sure how to proceed. I guess it's hard to be the parent of a supposed lunatic.

Not having a response to her noncommittal response, I stare out the car window, hoping to see some familiar territory. The hospital the ambulance took me to was miles away from my hometown hospital, and I haven't the slightest idea where we are.

"Seraphina, normal children don't just stare out the window in the car. They talk," my father says probingly. I squint. I'm pretty sure that if people weren't supposed to look out of the windows in the car, they wouldn't be there.

"What is there to talk about?" I say dryly. "You locked me up in the loony bin and now you're treating me like a bomb that could go off any second. Would you like to talk about that?" I asked politely.

My father just stared at me.

I turn back to the window and start humming the Sesame Street theme song. "My birthday is coming up," I announce. "I'll be six in a month. Are we going to have a party? I think we should have a party. I have the guest list all planned out already."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my parents exchange glances that say: "What in the name of hashbrowns is _this_ about?"

My mother nudges my dad when no one responds, and he sighs. "Who would you like to invite, Seraphina?" he groans.

"I'm thinking that I'd like to invite Edgar Allen Poe," I say placidly. "Hm. Or Shakespeare. Or both? Do you think they'd get along?"

"Uh-I-Seraphina, both of those men are dead," my mother splutters. She and my father exchange those wide-eyed glances again.

"Yes," I say, not sure what the big deal is. "Shakespeare for much longer than Poe. Two hundred years, I think."

"Seraphina, you can't invite _dead people _to your birthday party," My mother squeaks. "For one, they- well they're not going to _come,_ hopefully, and for two, it's… something an insane person wants to do! Please tell me you don't actually want to be _friends_ with dead people?" She sounds like she's having a heart palpitation. Her knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.

"Uh…" I scratch my neck, thinking that maybe I shouldn't have brought the topic up. "Of course not. They're dead. I want, um, living friends who are normal and girls and, um, play Barbies and… stuff."

Both of my parents release great breaths of relief. I blow a strand of pale blonde hair out of my face.

I am silent for the rest of the ride home. I don't even greet the WWII soldier who pops up through the carpeted floor of the car and tips his hat at me. I just give him a slight nod and zip my lips when my parents aren't looking. Thankfully, he understands. He sighs and says: "So they're _those _type of parents. The ruler-back kind. Have you tried telling them you're just talking to imaginary friends?"

I chuckle darkly under my breath and roll my eyes.

The soldier rests a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. "It'll be okay, kid," he says. "You'll make it through. All you have to do is graduate, and then you'll be a free bird."

Although I have not been able to say anything to him, the soldier is being nice to me. It makes my tummy feel all warm, and I feel a smile spread across my face. He's right. When I move out, I can talk to the ghosts as much as I want- I can interview soldiers from any war in history, and I won't even have to worry about being institutionalized!

"What are you smiling about, Seraphina?" My mother asks me, sounding exhausted.

"Ponies," I blurt out. I see my mother's eyebrows crinkle in the mirror. "I am thinking about the wondrous virtues of our equestrian friends, and how beneficial they are to… carnivals."

Beside me, the soldier snorts.

"You sound like you swallowed a thesaurus," he remarks. "Are you a genius, or something? You can't be more than five."

"Six," I correct automatically. I turned six in the hospital- and guess what? My parents hadn't remembered.

"What?" My mom asks.

Buttmonkeys! "I want six ponies," I declare. "When I grow up, I'm going to live in a castle and have six ponies and marry a prince."

The soldier snorts again.

I have the sudden urge to smack him. Once my parents have decided that my pony dream is a "normal thing" and not a "crazy Seraphina thing", I shoot a poisonous glare at the soldier. Normally, I would've loved to encounter him. I would've jumped at the opportunity to interview someone who'd fought in the most horrible war in history- but today, I am trying to be normal for my parents, so they don't drive me back the hospital.

The soldier finally gets a clue and vanishes, dissolving into thin air, reappearing who-knows-where. Once I am sure he is gone, I let out a sigh of relief. I make a pact with myself, swearing that I will stay silent and be normal for the rest of the car ride home.

My life is hard enough without dead people involved.

When we reach my house, I unbuckle and fly out of the car, running into my house faster than I've ever run before. "I'm going to my room!" I call out to my parents.

"Take as long as you want!" I hear my father shout from downstairs. I can hear the relief in his voice. That car ride must have put as much strain on my parents as it had on me. My parents don't actually want to be parents, I think. They just wanted a kid because that is what society dictates that they should want. I'm pretty sure that they regret having me, only if for the fact that they think I'm insane. I think it'd be best for all of us if once I'm eighteen, we head our separate ways, and only interact via Christmas cards if we have to. The least I can do for inconveniencing them so much is to get out of their hair once I'm old enough. And to be honest, I think I owe it to myself as well. I don't think I can handle having an intimate relationship with them after I move out. I'm pretty sure that would drive me bonkers for good.

After ascending the stairs, I pad down the hallway and enter my room. Before even looking around, I make sure to close my door all the way. Finally truly alone after months of being constantly monitored, I exhale in luxury and lean my head against the white-painted door. After taking a moment to savor the moment, I turn away from the door and go to plop down in my pink, furry shag chair.

But there's already someone in it.

I stifle a scream by shoving my fist in my mouth. There's a young boy, around my age, sitting in my chair and sketching in one of my notebooks. After hearing the muffled noise of my scream, he looks up. His electric blue eyes lock on mine, and I feel faint.

I don't realize that I have fainted until I feel arms around me and I hear chuckling.

"I thought you'd be used to sudden appearances by now, Sibyl," the boy remarks. I moan as he sets me down on my purple carpeted floor. This can't be happening. This can't be happening. Why can't I just have one moment where I'm not being interrupted by eccentric ghosts? When I muster the willpower to open my eyes and face my reality, my gaze locks on his.

"Can you please leave me alone, and never return?" I croak.

The boy laughs.

"No can do," he says jovially. "But don't worry- I'm not like anyone you've ever met before. I'm not one of those ghosts that want something from you, and I'm not a human that'll call you crazy 'cause you're talking to things that I can't see." He helps me sit up. "I'm here to be your friend, that's all."

I star e at him dubiously.

"I don't believe you," I announce, after giving him analyzing him extensively. It does not escape my notice that he is wearing scuffed up Converse and a shirt that says: 'Marilyn Manson' and has a picture of a Goth dude on it. He looks like the kind of boy my mother would tell me to stay away from.

I do not know why, but that makes me like him a bit more than I had originally.

The boy laughs. "I'll prove it to you. We can hang out for a bit, and if you still don't like me, I'll leave," he says. "Is that okay with you?"

I bite my lip. On one hand, I had just been institutionalized for being friends with imaginary people. I had just swore to myself that I would ignore the ghosts (or whatever they were) at all costs, that I would try to be normal. But on the other hand, I was very lonely, and had been for as long as I could remember. And here was a boy that was offering to be my friend. I weigh my options carefully. Finally, I decide to take a risk.

"Alright," I concede. "I'll give you a chance. What's your name?"

The boy flashes me a super-white smile. "Andy," he says. "And yours?" His lip curls, like it was a rhetorical question, like he already knows the answer. I do not see how that is possible, however, so I decide to answer.

"Seraphina," I say.

Andy takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. "Pleased to meet you, Seraphina," he grins.

Seraphina.

_Seraphina._

I have officially decided that I like this boy.


	2. Chapter 2

"Get out of my fucking way, scene whore," someone hisses at me, shoving into my fragile body and knocking me down. I cry out in pain as I fall onto the hard, linoleum floor. Pain shoots and sparkles up my arm from my elbow. I hear a group of people laugh, and I realize that my skirt has flipped up. Blushing furiously, I try to scramble to my knees, my hands sliding back down, slipping on somebody's spilled coke. I lurch to my feet, blushing like a motherfucker.

"Nice ass," some guy mutters as he passes me, his body a little too close for comfort. I keep my eyes down and fix my skirt over and over again, as if I brush it enough, the last minute will disappear out of history. I hurry to my last period class, trying not to get swept up in the sea of kids. When people see me coming in the hallway, they try to block my way on purpose, just because BriBri, the popular girl, detests me. This makes me late to almost every class. I'm too small to push them out of my way effectively, and also too timid to lay my hands on another person.

I rush through the door of my art class just as the bell rings. Unfortunately, I crash into none other than Jasmine Wells as I scurry to my seat. Jasmine is BriBri's best friend, and if I didn't know better, her acolyte.

"Watch out, bitch," she snaps. "Oh my God, can't you see, or did you finally go blind from all that eyeliner?"

I mumble an apology, my eyes on the floor, and sit down, plopping my backpack onto the floor and digging through it. I rest my art folder on the black table, and look to the front board where our assignment for the day was written.

"HALLOWEEN ASSIGNMENT- DRAW ONE OF THE FOLLOWING:

· SKELETON

· DEMON

· ANGEL

· VAMPIRE

· WEREWOLF

· OGRE

· ZOMBIE

· MUMMY

· BAT

· BLACK CAT

· OWL"

I frown at the board. It's unlike Mrs. Bellucci to give us an assignment that leaves so little artistic license. She doesn't believe in stuff like that, in telling her students what to draw. I look back at her desk and see an unfamiliar man, a substitute.

"That explains it," I mutter to myself. He'd probably come up with the assignment himself, thinking that we were six and wanted to make a Halloween craft.

Don't get me wrong, I adore Halloween. It's always been my favorite holiday. But that didn't mean that I wanted to stop in the middle of my music collage to make a glittery pumpkin.

Releasing a slight sigh, I leaf through my backpack yet again and pull out my sketchbook. I flip open to a clean page and tap it impatiently with my pencil. All of the choices on the board are stupid, and cliché. Vampires and werewolves are overdone. When I hear Jasmine discussing about the little pink bow she wants to put on her black cat, I rule that out too. Ogres, mummies, and zombies are hideous, and I'm not in the mood to draw something that will give me nightmares. There's a skeleton in my music collage, the guy on the cover of the Black Parade CD, so I figure that I'll do something else. This leaves me with owl, bat, angel, or demon.

I glance over at what the other people at my table are working on. The girl across from me is sketching out the rough form of an owl, and both of the guys on either side of me are drawing demons.

Sooooo. Bat, or angel?

It really doesn't take long for me to decide. Bats are slimy and disgusting, while angels are beautiful and miraculous. I start sketching the rough shape of a wing on my paper when I realize that if Mrs. Bellucci isn't here, then no one is stopping me from listening to my iPod.

I whip my iPod out of my hoodie pocket and shove the earbuds in, cranking the volume up as loud as possible and turning on 'Ydg' by Of Mice &amp; Men. The boys next to me flinch and stare at me as Austin Carlile starts screaming. I know that they can hear my music because of how loud it is. I know this, but I honestly don't care.

Feeling slightly better now that I have my music blasting in my ears, I refocus on my stupid project.

What the fuck do angels have to do with Halloween, anyway?

I scowl. If any type of angel would be associated with Halloween, it would be an evil one. A dark one.

A fallen angel.

Struck and empowered by an idea, I start sketching like a maniac. I am so absorbed in my drawing that I don't even notice that I have stolen some girl's eraser to erase my guidelines until I feel someone staring at me. Anxious, I glance behind me, but there is only a halfway constructed clay vase from the ceramics period. I jump when I feel someone lightly tap me on the hand, and my head whirls around.

I meet eyes with the other girl at my table. She says something, but I don't hear it because of my music. Quickly, I extract my earbuds from my ears, confused as to why she is bothering me.

"Um, that's my eraser," she says timidly, blushing and pointing at the eraser I hold in my hand. I blink and look down. Sure enough, I am clutching a Hello Kitty eraser, one that I haven't seen before in my life.

"Sorry!" I blurt, and hand it to her. I can feel my cheeks burning in embarrassment.

"It's all good. I was gonna let you use it for the rest of class, but I just fucked up the wings on my owl, and I'm out of eraser on my pencil," the girl explains. Discreetly, I check her drawing out in the corner of my eye. It looks like a fucking _photograph,_ I can't find any flaws that would need to be erased. "I like your angel, by the way. I'm Lavinia," she says, interrupting my ogling. She extends her hand, and for a second, I stupidly think that I have stolen another one of her art supplies and she wants me to hand it over. When I realize that she wants to shake hands, I rush to extend my charcoal smudged hand, and try to shake hers as briefly and lightly as I could. "What's your name?"

"I'm, uh, um," I stammer. "Um, Seraphina."

The girl smirks, but in a friendly way. "Are you sure?" she teases.

For some reason, this does not embarrass me, and instead brings a smile to my face.

"Absolutely sure. My name is Seraphina Blakeley. Nice to meet you, Lavinia," I say.

Lavinia gives a dramatic sigh of relief. "Finally, someone else with an uncommon name!" she exclaims. "I'm so tired of the looks I get when I tell people that my name is Lavinia! It's not hard to pronounce, it's just uncommon! But I'm sure you already understand this, what with your name and all. I just have to say that it's annoying- no one else ever understands, because their names are like 'Kelly' and 'Tory' and stuff."

I am surprised into another smile. "Does anyone ever forget the 'a' on the end of your name?" I ask eagerly. "People always call me 'Seraphine,' and it annoys the living fuck out of me."

Lavinia laughs. "Yeah, actually, that's happened to me before. I've had people call me 'Lavinnie,' which is even worse that 'Seraphine,' in my opinion. I mean, at least 'Seraphine' is a real name. What kind of piss-poor name is 'Lavinnie?'" She rolls her eyes, then leans in to whisper something to me, her long black hair falling over her shoulder and brushing my drawing. "This substitute is an idiot," she whispers. "This is a project for two year olds, am I right?"

I laugh. "At least it's just a one day thing. Remember the sub in September who made us do a week long knitting unit, even though he was only here for a day?"

Lavinia snorts. "My sweater turned out looking like a moldy red uvula," she says, then leans back and settles into her chair. After that, we return to our work, and after a couple minutes, I put my earbuds back in. But that was still the most social interaction I've had in my life, excluding the social interactions with my bullies. I'd never even talked to Lavinia before, and we had just had a pretty lengthy conversation!

Invigorated, I finish the rough sketch of my angel- or should I say, my fallen angel.

I had sketched a male angel, falling through the sky, his wings being torn off in the process. His left wing was completely severed from his back and dissolving into oblivion in the air behind him while his right wing seemed to be only kept in place by a few stitches. His expression is anguished and heartbroken; his long, thin fingers are reaching for heaven as he spirals to hell.

It is definitely the best work of art I have ever created.

You see, I suck at drawing. I suck at a lot of things actually. I have no real talents, unless you include seeing things that aren't there and making people think I'm insane. Everything I have ever drawn before has been mediocre at best, and terrifying at worst. But this sketch is completely different. It's gorgeous, so gorgeous that I find myself wondering if it had truly been drawn by my own clumsy hand.

I feel someone rest their hand on my arm and I spazz out, flailing and almost falling out of my chair, ripping my earbuds out of my ears again in the process. When I look up, I see that it is Lavinia, and that the dismissal bell must've rung because no one else is in the classroom.

"Time to go, Klutz-Master," she says brightly. I stare at her suspiciously. "What?"

"Why are you being nice to me?" I demand.

Her eyes widen in shock for a second before she bursts out into uncontrolled laughter. "Why am I being nice to you?" she repeats. "I'm being nice to you because I think you're cool. I've thought you were cool since you gave that presentation on manga in the first week of school. I think you're cool, and I want to be your friend. Is that okay with you?" she smirks.

"Ah… what?" I ask, taken aback.

_"I want to be your friend," _she repeats slowly, enunciating each word like she is teaching a child how to speak.

I blink. "Why?" I'm absolutely baffled. "Everyone hates me," I say, then have to keep myself from face-palming. What, did I _like _being alone so much that I was really trying to convince this girl not to like me? Seriously?

"No, Jasmine hates you, which means BriBri hates you, which means all of her minions hate you, which all means absolutely nothing to me," Lavinia corrects. "I don't care about having some stupid sluts like me. I'd rather meet the interesting people, and you, Seraphina Blakeley, are interesting to me."

I cock my head.

"You think I'm insane, then," I say flatly. "You think I'm insane, and BriBri probably put you up to this. Well you can tell her to go masturbate with a flat iron, and that I'm not going to take part in this little bullshit game." I shove my stuff in my bag and pick it up off the floor, standing up and preparing to leave. I only stop when I hear wheezing coming from behind me. I turn around and see that Lavinia is hunched over, laughing hysterically.

"'Go masturbate with a flat iron,'" she gasps. "You're a fucking _genius! _That's amazing. I'm not spying for BriBri, but I think I'll tell her that anyway next time I see her, just because it's so awesome!" She wipes her eyes, and only then do I consciously notice that she is wearing a lot of eyeliner and a Bring Me the Horizon band shirt, and her hair is cut and dyed very scene. "How is it possible that you don't have, like, a million friends? I'd much rather hang with someone as funny as you than a whorebag like BriBri any day. And besides, you have great music taste."

"How do you know my music taste?" I demand. I'm not wearing any band merch today, so how can this girl know what bands I like?

"I could hear Austin Carlile screaming from your earbuds all class, sweetheart. Actually, I'm pretty sure that everyone could," Lavinia says.

"Hey, I switched to Suicide Silence for a bit in the middle of the period," I defended.

"Yeah, you played 'Fuck Everything' like six times and then went back to Of Mice &amp; Men," Lavinia acknowledges. "But the majority of the period, it was Austin and Shayley coming from your iPod. Cut me some slack!"

I stare at her. She has a sweet, friendly-looking face, and she seems sincere. She likes the bands I like, and dresses the way I like, and has a weird name and understands my weird 'a' obsession. And, she thought my flat iron line was funny.

"Alright," I sigh. "You're cool. Now can I leave?"

Lavinia beams. "Yup! See you tomorrow, Seraphina Adalina Tressalina!" she sings, then skips out of the classroom.

I stare at the doorway long after she's passed through it.

What the actual fuck just happened?

I run home, excited to relay all the details of what had happened in my art class to Andy.

Yes, Andy. The strange boy- imaginary boy?- who had first shown up in my life when I had gotten home from the institution for the first time, many years ago. Andy and I had become great friends almost immediately, and he hadn't left my side since.

I almost break down my front door in my haste to get inside and talk to him. Andy is most likely a figment of my imagination, but he's still the best friend I've ever had. Andy has never appeared out of my house, but I just chalk that up to the fact that I only feel safe talking to him alone, and the times when I'm alone are usually only in my room. Since he's my imaginary friend, I just assume that I don't make him appear out in the real world because I won't be able to talk to him, and that would drive me bonkers.

I run up my stairs so fast that I trip. My stomach lurches the second my foot misses the next step, and I know that I am going to fall before I even start to lose altitude.

But I never hit the ground.

"How is it possible for someone to fall going _up _the stairs?" I hear Andy's voice muse. His arms tighten around me as he helps me get upright, and I see his classic smirk on his face.

"ANDYYYY!" I squeal. "There's this girl in my art class-her name is Lavinia- she likes Austin Carlile and understands the 'a' thing and likes owls and she has a fuzzy red uvula and- fuck, that didn't come out right- she _made _a fuzzy red uvula in art class out of yarn and it was supposed to be a sweater but I guess she didn't know how to-"

"Woah, major effin' word spew, there, Sera. Let's just get into your room before someone comes home and thinks that you're talking to yourself," Andy says. He takes my hand and leads me to my room, closing the door behind us and then flopping down on my bed. "Now, what was that about uvulas?"

"Um, nothing," I blush. "What I meant to say was that I made a friend in art class. Her name's Lavinia." I say this as nonchalantly as possible, knowing that I'm dropping a gigantic bomb, and wanting to see Andy's reaction to me acting like it's no big deal.

Andy shoots upright, a stupidly giddy look on his face. "You made a friend?" he gapes.

I nod.

"A human friend?" He inquires.

I nod again.

"A _real _human friend?" He pushes.

"Yes, Andy, I made a goddamn friend! She's as real as fucking brussel sprouts, now can you just freak out already?"

He obliges. "Holy _fuck, _you made a friend!"

He jumps up off of my bed, plucks my backpack from my shoulder like its light as air, tosses it to the floor, takes my hands in his and starts twirling me around the room. We dance like elated fools, me stumbling around my room and him trying to guide me and keep me from falling on my ass. He is a much better dancer than I am. I don't think that he's ever had any training- he's just so light on his feet, and has long, graceful legs. He has unshakeable balance, and it shows in his movements. He spins me around over and over again- every time we dance, he does this. I think it is because he likes it when I get dizzy and have to either cling to him to stay upright or flop down on my bed. Andy likes the fact that I need him, and he likes it even more when this dependency leeches into our physical interaction.

When I finally get dizzy, I say: "Oh, stop, _stop!" _while laughing, and we both tumble down onto the mattress. I close my eyes and focus on calming down my heaving chest before doing anything else. I feel Andy breathing next to me, and I'm a little bit irritated that he only seems to be slightly winded, while I'm panting like a dog. I feel him take a strand of my white-blonde hair in his hand and hear him laugh.

"I can't believe that you finally made a friend," he says. I frown, opening my eyes, starting to get offended, but he cuts me off. "Don't get offended. We both know how hard it is for you to be friends with normal people, that's all I was trying to say. I'm so fucking _proud _of you, you know?"

I snort and go to sit up, but he throws his arm across my waist, keeping me down. "Proud? What, are you my father?" I quip.

"Shut up, Blakeley. I can be proud as your friend just as easily," Andy says. "How could I _not _get excited about such a huge thing!? I think we should celebrate!"

"We could get the guys and have a pseudo-party," I suggest. The day after Andy showed up, four other guys showed up as well, but they were all fully grown. They'd introduced themselves as Ashley, CC, Jinxx, and Jake. Ashley always made jokes that I didn't understand but made Andy blush and the rest of the guys snigger. CC appeared with a new stuffed animal for me everyday. Jinxx and Jake were quiet. Jake sometimes read Shakespeare with me when I was younger, but he hadn't done that in a while. And I had always gotten the impression that Jinxx wasn't too fond of me, but that was just as well. I'd always liked him just the same.

At the mention of the others, Andy groans. "Fuck no, I never get to spend time with you alone anymore. The guys can wait 'til tomorrow to find out; tonight it's just gonna be you and me."

He pulls me closer into him, and for some odd reason, my heart starts to flutter erratically. "Ah, um, so what do you want to do?" I splutter.

"Hmm," Andy contemplates.

"OH! I know, I did this sketch in art class; you should totally help me outline it!" I jump up excitedly, breaking free of his grasp and diving off of the bed before he could pull me down again, because that was totally something he'd do. I fished through my backpack and pulled out my sketch. I hold it up for him to see, beaming brighter than the sun.

Andy studies it, his face an expressionless mask.

Andy has always been amazing with art. In fact, when I first saw him, he'd been sketching my room in one of my notebooks, and the sketch had turned out looking like a photograph. I've never shown him any of my drawings before, mostly because they're usually hideous and I don't want to embarrass myself. But this sketch is different, it's really good, and it gives me a thrill to finally be able to show some of my art to him.

"It's… an angel?" he asks, his voice hesitant and catching on the consonants.

"A fallen angel," I correct. I think I hear him inhale sharply, but I am not quite sure, and he does not give me time to wonder about it.

"The shading is beautiful," he remarks. "The composition, the graphite you used, even the quality of the paper- they all add to the sketch. This is great, Seraphina. How come you've never showed me your art before?"

"Because usually, it sucks duck feces," I mutter. "This is definitely the best work of art I've ever made. I don't know what came over me; I just felt suddenly inspired to draw a fallen angel, and I felt like it needed to be perfect. I couldn't allow myself to fail. I think it turned out pretty great as well. Now I just need to outline and color it, but I suck at that, so…" I trail off, hoping that he'll offer to do it, and that he won't make me beg.

Andy's lip curls and his blue eyes glimmer. He knows what I want. He knows, but he wants to make me beg.

"Please?" I plead, tossing the sketch on the bed and clasping my hands together like a dying martyr.

"I'm sorry, 'please' what?" he asks politely.

I shoot him my deadliest glare. "Can you _pleeeeeeease _help me finish this? I think it's due tomorrow, and I really don't want to fuck it up, as it's the best sketch I've ever made. All you have to do is outline and color it! I know it won't take you long; you're great at this stuff." When he still does not tell me he will do it, I drop to my knees and give him my sad, puppy-dog eyes. "Help a girl out?" I pout.

He groans and covers his face with his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "You always win these sorts of things," he mumbles.

"Yay!" I declare, and I jump and tackle him in a huge, grateful hug. "You're the absolute greatest motherfucker in the world!"

"Yeah, yeah," Andy grumbles, but I can see a slight pink tint his pale cheeks, and the way he tries to hide his flattered smile. I hand him a notebook to rest the sketch on and he pulls his good India ink pens and Reeves coloured pencils out from under my bed.

I stay quiet as he works his magic. I look over his shoulder the entire time he works, watching the way his hand glides across the page, the way the purple-dyed ink seeps into the white page, dark and rich. By the time he is done outlining, several minutes have passed, but I feel like he has just started. That always happens when I watch Andy draw. Watching him draw takes me to another world. I am entranced. His long, thin fingers cease to look fragile, and instead look like the strongest things in the universe. Those hands are creating an entire world, using just a paper and a pen.

As he finishes with the outlining and moves onto colouring, I rest my head on his shoulder and grab his arm with my hand. I feel like I want to phase through his skin and dissolve into his bloodstream. Then, I could be a part of creating something so beautiful. But I can't, so I just grip him tightly, and try to imagine that I am part of him.

The finished drawing takes my breath away. I stare at it in wonder. I was a part of creating that. I sketched it, and Andy defined it. It is something that we made together, and suddenly it seems like so much more than a joint art project. It seems like the first tangible proof of our friendship. I mean, seeing as Andy is a part of my imagination, he cannot stand as physical proof. Nothing he or the other guys make for me exists after they have vanished. The stuffed animals CC brings me disappear once he has left, once Andy has growled for everyone else to go away so that he may have me to himself. The handwritten folios of _Romeo and Juliet _that Jake once brought me had disappeared long ago, right after Andy made him leave so he could tuck me into bed.

But this drawing is different, I can feel it. When I had held the stuffed animals and the folio, they had felt hollow, like projections of the objects they were meant to be. But the drawing still feels absolutely solid and real. I know- without a doubt- that this will last. Andy has never given me anything before, but the drawings he makes in my notebooks don't disappear, so I am hoping that the same will ring true for this one.

"That is so beautiful," I murmur, and I am startled to realize that I am crying. I see the teardrop fall, hurtling towards the paper, and I cry out- I don't want tear marks on our beautiful sketch. But Andy extends his hand and my teardrop splashes in the middle of his palm, saving the drawing from tearstains. For a second, he is silent. He lifts his hand to his mouth and licks the tear off of it.

"Your tears taste like sugar water," he says softly, and then he turns to face me. "Why are you crying?" he inquires.

"It's just- it's just that it's so beautiful," I breathe. "Your art… is exquisite. It's gorgeous. I wish- I wish that I could be so beautiful."

Instead of telling me that I am that beautiful- which is honestly the last thing I want to hear- Andy says: "I could draw on your skin, if you'd like. I could outline it in special ink, so that it'll last for a while."

I inhale sharply. "Yes," I say immediately. "Yes, please. That would be- that would be an honor!"

Andy smiles a melancholy smile.

"Here," I say, and I brush the back of my shirt up and lean forward, exposing the pale skin of my back to him. "Draw whatever you'd like."

He does not respond with words, but rather with the shuffling of papers and the sounds of pens clinking together as he selects a base color to start with. I close my eyes, and I feel the soft press of a felt pen tip on my lower back. I can feel the cool trail of ink sizzling on my burning hot skin- when did it get so hot in here?!

I do not know how long we are like this. I find myself getting lost in the strokes he makes on my back; I find my stomach lurching as his cold fingers brush my skin. I know that I should savor the moment, but I am too busy getting lost in the ecstasy of becoming one of his beautiful works of art.

When he says that he is finished, I do not want the experience to end.

"No. Isn't there any skin left?" I ask, hopeful.

"No, your back is all filled up," he replies. "The ink is really quick to dry, so you can pull your shirt back down, if you'd like."

I adjust myself, and lay down with my back. Feeling embarrassed and shy for some reason, I find myself hesitant to ask: "Can you draw on my stomach as well?"

The grin he gives me is one I've never seen before. "Why not?" he muses, and- his eyes never leaving mine- he lightly brushes the hem of my t-shirt up to midway up my ribcage.

I feel self-conscious all of the sudden, which is absolutely absurd. He is a figment of my imagination, and therefore, technically has already seen my entire body before. I mean, if he is part of my brain, he has already seen my stomach, seen my back, seen all of me. Thinking this does not calm me down, however, it just makes me blush.

When Andy sees the pink flush in my cheeks, he raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. I close my eyes as he sets to work again. Soon- too soon- he is saying that he is done and I am wishing that I had more skin for him to color on. I mean, yes he could color on my arms, and my legs, but I am not sure if these drawings will be visible to other people. If they are, I don't want to have to explain them.

"May I look at them now?" I ask him. He nods and helps me up, off of the bed and over to the full-length mirror that hangs next to my closet. For a second, I take in my reflection- my cheeks are rosy, which is a contrast to my usually death-pale skin, and my blonde hair is a mess. My brown eyes have never looked more alive, though, and I am wondering if there is magic infused into Andy's India ink pens. It seems like they have transformed me from average girl, Seraphina Blakeley, to a beautiful young lady.

Eager to see his artwork, but suddenly shy about lifting my shirt up, I turn around to face him. I open my mouth, but he already knows what I am going to say.

"I'll clean up my pens," he says, and then walks over to my bed, cleaning up the pens that are strewn across the rumpled covers.

I lift my shirt up to below my chest and gasp.

He has drawn everything to go with my fallen angel. Wings stretch outwards across my ribcage, basking in a golden sun that hangs in the center of my torso. Angels and demons dance below them. Most of the demons are snatching the halos from off the angels' heads and biting them; others are ripping the wings off of the backs of their seraphic enemies. Absorbed, I turn around, and I see that he has drawn a skull with a halo resting atop it, and the face of a pointy-teethed demon smiling hungrily behind it. The blank space of my pale white skin is filled up with what appear to be both Satanic and Abrahamic prayers, in every type of language imaginable- some are easily recognizable to me as English, Spanish, Latin and Hebrew, but others look older and more foreign. I squint and I recognize the Japanese kanji for heart.

"This is magnificent," I say quietly. "Andy, this is the most stunning thing I've ever seen. What does all of this mean? Where did this come from?" I turn around and see that he is bending over, returning his colouring supplies back to their place under my bed.

When he straightens up, he shrugs. "I don't know. I guess I was playing off of your fallen angel theme," he says, like it's no big deal, like he hasn't just created something so beautiful that it could easily rival Da Vinci's _Last Supper _on my skin.

"And the prayers?" I probe, curious. He couldn't possibly be fluent in all of those languages, could he? I mean, he was just in my mind. I sure as hell couldn't speak those languages, so how could he?

Again, Andy shrugged. "I remember them from somewhere, I guess. Maybe you came across them in your studies, and I happened to notice them while you were reading."

I frown. "You're being very vague, you know."

This makes him laugh. "Seraphina, I've always been vague," he points out. When I do not stop frowning, he crosses the room and ruffles my hair affectionately. "Don't worry about it, sweetheart."

I do not know what I would've said in response to him, because at that moment, Jinxx appeared and all conversation ceased. His eyes immediately land on my uplifted shirt and Andy's drawings on my skin, then narrow and move to where his hands are on me.

Andy jumps away from me like I've caught on fire.

"Jinxx-" he starts, flexing his hands, a nervous habit that I haven't seen in a while.

"Just get out, Sixx," Jinxx snaps.

"Sixx?" I cut in, completely oblivious to the tension.

"Yes, Sixx, as in his last name, Sixx," growls Jinxx.

"I never knew you had a last name," I mutter, looking at Andy in accusation. It had never occurred to me that my imaginary friends would have last names. I had never seen a reason for them to have them before.

"'Sixx' isn't really a last name as much as it is a burden," he says under his breath. Jinxx gives him a poisonous look, which makes Andy flinch.

"Sixx. Out. Now," Jinxx commands. "I'm taking over for you tonight."

_"You _are going to spend the entire night with _Sera?" _Andy asks incredulously. He crosses his arms. "Over my dead body."

Jinxx starts to sigh in exasperation, but never gets the chance to respond to Andy's challenge, because CC has randomly entered the room. He saunters over to Andy and puts his arm around his shoulder.

"Don't worry, I'll be with them," he says, and the dread that'd been building in my chest evaporates. Jinxx is scary, but CC is fun and easy to be around. He'll make the night bearable, if not fun. "No way am I gonna let Jinxx-y have all the fun!"

CC winks at me, which makes me laugh and makes Andy frown.

"Just what kind of fun are we talking about here?"

My head whips around to find that Ashley is standing behind me.

"If it's the kind of fun that I'm think about," he wiggles his eyebrows, "then I'm game."

Ashley rests his hands on my exposed skin- my goddamn shirt was _still up!- _and pulls me back to him.

"Oh _hell _no!" Andy spits out. "Ashley is _not _spending the night in Sera's room. Jinxx, you have to realize what a stupid idea this is. _Ashley- _I mean, _come on- _Ashley is just gonna…" he trails off as he looks over at me. I am completely confused as to what's going on, which is funny, considering it's all happening in my head. "He's gonna be Ashley," Andy finishes lamely.

"Fine. Jake will babysit you and Ashley while CC and I stay up here with Seraphina," Jinxx decides. "Jake is down in the living room watching Donald Duck try to murder Chip and Kale."

_"Dale," _I cough. Jinxx turns to me and gives me a 'who-gives-a-fuck' look. I wince. Way to make the guy like you, Sera. Correct him like you're the goddamn cartoon Nazi.

Andy weighs his options. He can either fight Jinxx and risk being banished from me for even longer, or he can go downstairs and watch cartoons with Jake and Ashley. "Fine," he grumbles, and blows his hair out of my face. "You two better behave," he warns CC and Jinxx.

CC salutes him. "I'll keep Jinxx in line," he assures Andy, grinning and flexing his arms. Andy snorts.

"You do that, CC," he shakes his head. "C'mon, Ashley. Leave Sera alone."

I can feel Ashley's laughter vibrating in his gut. He leans down and drops a kiss on my neck, then breezes out of the room, a fuming Andy in tow.


End file.
